


Another Rainy Day in London Town

by boogiewoogiebuglegirl



Category: Spooks | MI-5
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-07
Updated: 2013-04-07
Packaged: 2017-12-07 18:16:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,294
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/751545
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/boogiewoogiebuglegirl/pseuds/boogiewoogiebuglegirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Malcolm & Lucas catch up for a pint shortly after Lucas' return.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Another Rainy Day in London Town

**Author's Note:**

  * For [QueenofMultitasking](https://archiveofourown.org/users/QueenofMultitasking/gifts).



> Just a little something jotted down over a couple of weeks. Started with the idea about Lucas and his lovely tatts and evolved into something completely different, because Lucas needs a friend. FYI, un-beta-ed. Written with love to my dear friend Emmy XD

The pub is small and full of people stopping by for a drink or two after work. The room is stuffy and smells – as most pubs do – of stale cigarettes, spilt beer and the various body odours of its patrons. An ‘80s ballad plays quietly under the constant stream of voices shouting, calling, chatting and laughing.

 

Lucas and Malcolm sit at the back of the pub, near a black door marked, “STAFF ONLY”. The pair have been sitting in companionable silence after Malcolm had bought the first round of drinks for “old times’ sake”. Lucas had smiled briefly at that, trying hard to remember the “old times” to which Malcolm referred. Being back at The Grid had stirred up memories he had thought disappeared under eight years of waiting. Waiting for a familiar face, or even a single word of communication from the outside world. Even the slightest bit of knowledge that someone knew where he was; that someone was going to get him out and get him home.

 

And now he was home. The Grid might have changed, some redecoration here and there, and most of the faces were unfamiliar, but he was back.

 

Lucas raises the glass of bitter to his lips, condensation collecting in a ring on the table. After eight years of lining his stomach with crude vodka, he took his time to savour the dark amber liquid. Malcolm sits forward in his chair, both hands clutched around his scotch, mouth opening and shutting in an attempt to think of something to say.

 

Lucas, noticing Malcolm’s growing anxiety, speaks. “You look well,” he says, Malcolm’s face showing his relief at not having to start the conversation.

 

Malcolm forces a grin onto his face. “A little less hair than when I last saw you, but, yes: I’m not doing too badly.”

 

Lucas smiles slightly at this and unconsciously runs a hand through his own hair. “The Grid looks good. Very high tech. You’ll have to help me play catch-up at some point.”

 

Malcolm nods. “Oh yes, of course. I’m not sure what things were like for you…well-,” he pauses, frowning slightly, “-over there, but I’m sure you’ll get up to speed quickly. You were always a quick learner.”

 

Lucas takes another sip of drink and allows himself a small sigh of pleasure. “I can’t believe I ever took bitter for granted. Especially in my younger days when it used to come back up again an hour later.”

 

Malcolm smiles, noting Lucas’ quick subject change. Maybe after another round, he’ll feel like talking, once Lucas knows that the other is still trustworthy. The pair make small talk, Lucas enquiring after Malcolm’s mother and if he actually gets a chance to see her. There was a running joke that had been going since Lucas’ days at The Grid that Malcolm slept there and only popped home to see his mum and pick up new clothes.

 

Lucas seems to relax a little after his second pint of bitter, Malcolm slowly sipping away at his scotch.

 

“What was he like?” Lucas asks suddenly.

 

Malcolm frowns, trying to figure out to whom Lucas is referring. “Oh. You mean Adam? He was… he was a good man. MI6, originally, but we pinched him. Frighteningly good at his job. He’ll definitely be missed.”

 

Lucas nods slowly. “He had a son, right? What’ll happen to him?”

 

Malcolm raises his eyebrows and shrugs. “Not sure. Harry went and saw him. Poor lad.”

 

“And before him? Tom Quinn, I heard. What happened to him?” Lucas asks bluntly.

 

Malcolm shakes his head and his lips twitch into a sad smile. “Poor Tom. Surprisingly, he’s still alive. Considering the track record of our field agents, he’s done well to beat the odds. The job was cruel to him; changed him in many ways. He lost a part of himself and I don’t think he’ll ever find it.”

 

“I remember him. Clever man. He would have been a great boss.” Lucas pauses to take a mouthful of bitter. “And now we have Ros Myers. She seems competent. Scary woman, by the look of her.”

 

Malcolm huffs a laugh. “She’s absolutely terrifying. She’ll be brilliant.”

 

The pub quickly becomes even stuffier as more people cram their way in, hoping to avoid the rain that had started to pour down outside. Lucas unbuttons his cuffs and neatly folds his shirtsleeves up to his elbows.

 

Malcolm frowns slightly as he notices the blueish ink on Lucas’ wrist. “Did they hurt?”

 

Lucas self-consciously rubs his hand around his wrist. “Yes. But strangely, you get used to it. You have to. They’re all part of fitting in. If you fit in, you stay alive. I needed to stay alive, so I got them done.”

 

Malcolm looks surprised. “Them? How many do you have?”

 

Lucas smirks. “A few. I had eight years to build up a fairly decent collection. I quite like my Blake one, though. I’ve one of his paintings on my chest. If I had to get one, I wanted a little bit of control of what it would be.”

 

“I’m sure that Blake would approve of that,” Malcolm replies. “Your taking control, that is. Not sure if he had any tattoos himself.”

 

“Not that I’m aware of," says Lucas. “I managed to source a book of his when I was inside. Cost me a lot of favours, but it was worth it.”

 

“I’ve always been curious about your love for Blake,” Malcolm wonders idly. “He was a bit of an anarchist for his time, wasn’t he?”

 

“Well, a little bit of one, I suppose,” Lucas replies. “He didn’t have much love for the government. Didn’t trust what was going on behind the scenes. I admire his work and his philosophies.”

 

 _“”_ _A good local pub has much in common with a church, except that a pub is warmer, and there's more conversation”_ ,” Malcolm quotes. “That was Blake, wasn’t it?”

 

Lucas nods. “Very appropriate.”

 

Malcolm sits back in his chair, idly spinning his empty scotch glass in small circles. “I’ve always wondered: how do they do them? The tattoos, that is. I assume that there wasn’t access to the best facilities.”

 

Lucas seems to turn inward at Malcolm’s comment, his arms wrapping around himself. “Makeshift ink: anything from your bog-standard ballpoint to the less than glamourous inks made of urine and soot. Needles from the clinic, if you can get them, or any kind of wire. Not the most clean procedures. To be fair, the artists work well with what resources they have.”

 

Malcolm’s nose scrunches up in disgust. “Urine? I can’t imagine that’s overly sanitary.”

 

“Well, I’ve seen a couple of deaths due to infection,” Lucas grimaces at the memory. “Infection invades the bloodstream leading to sepsis. Nasty way to go.”

 

Malcolm shudders. “And that is exactly why I stay safely behind my desk.”

 

Lucas laughs softly and drains his pint. “Another?” he asks, pointing to Malcolm’s empty glass.

 

Malcolm sighs and looks at his watch. “I’d better not. I’m meant to be having a late supper with Mum. I’m sure she’ll already bang on about my smelling of a pub.”

 

“Thanks for doing this,” Lucas says, standing up with Malcolm. “It’s good to see a familiar face.”

 

Malcolm reaches across the table and the two men shake hands. “It’s good to have you back, Lucas. I’ll get you started on the new tech tomorrow. It’ll be fine, I’m sure.” Bringing his other arm up, Malcolm places a hand on Lucas’ shoulder.

 

“I’ll see you in the morning,” says Lucas. “Chocolate doughnuts in exchange for some lessons. Sound fair?”

 

Malcolm smiles. “Fair. Goodnight, Lucas.” He picks up his jacket from where it has been hanging on his chair and makes his way out into the rainy night.


End file.
